


a soldier, a spy and a politician walk into a bar

by Purplecroissant2



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Politics, mentions of Padme Amidala and Anakin Skywalker, minor descriptions of physical injury, swsecretsanta2020, where Palpatine is ~mysteriously defeated offscreen~
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28284165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purplecroissant2/pseuds/Purplecroissant2
Summary: Or Fox, Quinlan and Riyo figure out the transition to peacetime, or not at all
Relationships: Riyo Chuchi/CC-1010 | Fox/Quinlan Vos
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coruscantguard (nadiavandyne)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nadiavandyne/gifts).



> This is a gift for coruscantguard! Happy holidays! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> I wrote this for the Star Wars Secret Santa 2020! Thanks to lilhawkeye3 on tumblr for organizing the whole thing. It's been a blast.
> 
> A Note on the AU: as far as anyone in this fic is aware, Palpatine was defeated in a mysterious clash with the Jedi a few weeks ago. At the same time, Anakin Skywalker and Padme Amidala disappeared off of Coruscant. None of this is addressed particularly directly!

The annoying thing about the Council chambers is that it’s a stupid round room sitting all by itself at the top of a structurally unsound spire jutting out of the middle of the Temple like parasitic growth completely isolated from every other useful room, and the only way in or out is via the Force forsaken turbolift that breaks down every three months.

All of this is to say that Quinlan’s dramatic, kriff-you exit is brought to an abrupt halt three steps out the door while he waits for the lift to first ascend from the Treasury to pick him up and then descend to drop him off, a 3 minute roundtrip that takes the wind out of his metaphorical sails then blows it right back in, leaving him in a state Aayla’d cheerfully call “Peak Vos” by the time he can storm out the turbolift doors.

And since to speak of a nosy padawan is to make one appear, Aayla is waiting for him when he makes it out of the Treasury. Quinlan had been hoping her antagonistic relationship with Master Chi, forensic accountant, would keep her far enough away that he could sneak out the Temple before she caught him, but she is indefatigable when it comes to gossip and a good spanking by the Council is right up her alley.

“So did they ground you ‘indefinitely’ or ‘until further notice?’” she asks, pushing off the wall where she was lurking like a lurker and jogging to catch up. Quinlan ups the ante on his speedwalk and veers left towards the Worst Hanger. He won’t lose her by any means, but if she’s gonna drag the story out of him, he’s owed a little pettiness.

“Until I’m ‘cleared by medical,’ whatever that means,” he grouses.

Aayla barks a laugh and leaps over an initiate to stay in step with him. “That’s basically never, Master. They just promoted Master Eerin to Head of Ward 9. Which means she’s in charge of combat clearances. Which means—“

“Which means I will never see the far side of Coruscant, ‘cause Bant Eerin _hates_ me—“

“Which means you will never see the far side of Coruscant because Bant Eerin loves you and wants you to keep your insides inside. More the pity for her, one of her oldest, _dearest_ friends—a crechemate—so desperate to get himself killed in field because he won’t wait for his multiple failed organs to regenerate properly—“

“ _One organ_. And who needs a liver anyways—“

“Most beings need a liver, Master! I’d daresay all beings with livers need their livers, but I can’t be sure because I failed Xenobiology 100!”

“You failed a class? You never told me,” Quinlan says. The Worst Hanger is the name little Ani Skywalker gave the intraplanetary transport hanger when he was eleven and unimpressed with anything that wasn’t bright yellow and equipped with a hyperdrive. Quinlan can’t help but agree with him as he surveys his options. Last year’s Halcyon 2385 will obviously get him to the new historical district, but will also get him stopped by every classist protocol droid from the 7th to Meridian. Not it.

“Well, you signed the progress reports, so as far as Master Sinube is concerned you know, tutored me in Xeno, and administered my make up tests.” Quinlan considers this statement as he beelines for a Browning 345. On the upper levels, they’re more or less synonymous with the Jedi, which would be unideal for super secret stealth situations, but a) this is by no means a super secret stealth situation (just a fake mustache-level clandestine one) and b) enough senators request bedroom meetings with Jedi that one more Brown Nose bopping around that district won’t attract any attention. They’re also ugly, but whatever.

“Amoral, padawan. I’m not sure I approve…” He slides into the cab of the speeder and flicks the ignition, phantom sensations fluttering through the deep nerves in his forearms at the contact. _Sugary drinks and multi-colored lights in a nightclub. Jedi robes discarded in the back seat._ The memory of someone else’s debauchery is always delicious. It leaves him feeling punchy and electric, and he wraps both hands around the wheel and revs the accelerator with all of the brakes on, letting the engine grumble and spit. It’s the kind of thing that, for most, would signal the end of the conversation. Aayla wedges her body between Quinlan and the door and looms over him, unwilling to let her one-sided negotiation go.

“Master, promise me you will abide by the Council. You will rest and recuperate and regain full hepatic function before you even consider taking another assignment.” Aayla turns the full force of her tooka kit eyes on him, but she’s no spit-shined initiate, not anymore. His girl’s a _kinight_ , and Quinlan lets the weight of her gaze settle on him.

It itches. And that’s kriffin’ tragic. He wants to live up to her expecations, settle into peacetime and meditate regularly and keep himself sensibly alive and inside-in. He wants to live up to the Council’s expectations, smaller now and ravaged by war, take on another padawan, teach an initiate class, go to a mind healer. He wants all of this _responsibility_ to fit like a well-tailored robe. Instead, it grates on his fried nerves, an ill-fitting sweater that sends of flashes of lonely graves and regret over the sensitive arch of his eye socket. It feels like crying.

“Sorry, Padawan. I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep,” he says, trying for a kind smile. He thinks it comes out as more of a grimace, from the hurt that slashes over her expression. “Now, I’ve got a very important meeting with some criminal miscreants on level [low level], if you’ll excuse me—”

Aayla scoffs and shoves away from the speeder. “Oh, please. Say hello to your senator for me,” she spits as she stalks off.

Rude.

Quinlan pulls out into the rush hour traffic, the Temple squarely in his rear view mirror. What a stupid, old clunker, replete with vintage accessories that were all the rage twenty years ago. _Who puts a mirror on a speeder with 360° radar? Who wants to be slapped in the face with the physical and metaphorical manifestation of everything they want to leave behind?_

The thought stops him cold. _Is that what he wants? To leave the Jedi behind?_ His instinct is to recoil from the thought, but he returns to it over and over as he speeds towards his destination. His Temple authorization codes get him through tolls and checkpoints undeterred—a check for the Pros column of the _Stay in the Order???_ mental chart—and before he realizes it, he’s there, parking haphazardly, nodding insouciantly at the valet who hates him.

_It’d make this rigamarole less complicated_ , he thinks as he circles around the building to the service elevator. They don’t put much effort into hiding anything—the Order certainly has more to worry about than another Jedi forming inappropriate pre or post war attachments, both in general and from him specifically—but for appearances’ sake he usually takes the private route to the penthouse. But he would never have to leave if he left the Order. He could become a trophy husband.

He’s thinking through the logistics of trophy husbandry when the elevator slides to a halt. On the other side of the doors stands a slight figure, blue and beautiful and pissed off beyond all imagining, if the arrogant twist of her mouth is any indication.

“Hello, Senator. Fancy running into you here.”


	2. Chapter 2

“You’re certainly not in the mood for small talk, Senator Chuchi,” Chancellor Organa says, leaning back in his chair.

Riyo sits and resists the urge to fidget. It’s late in the day, and light streams in through the unbroken panes of transparisteel that make up Organa’s office. It’s blinding, but she won’t squint, ducking her head a little as a massive transport shifts out of the way and sends golden beams like spears into her eye balls. She’d heard a rumor that Palpatine had thrown Kit Fisto out of one of those windows. If it’s true, they fixed the break quickly, replacing the entire back wall so you’d never know the battle for the fate of the Republic had happened right there.

You’d never know a lot of things happened looking at this office, and Riyo thinks it’s an apt metaphor for the state of things. Clean blue synth silk and cast metal has replaced all of Palpatine’s gaudy red and dark wood, hundreds of thousands of credits worth of organic office furnishings tossed in a garbage compactor after some lunatics with laser swords went to town on the décor. With the door closed, you’d think that nothing was amiss, but the Chancellor’s elevator is still down due to wiring issues. Apparently, enough “Force lightning” had been thrown around to fry the entire top floor of the Senate electrical, whatever that meant.

Riyo climbed twelve flights of stairs to have this meeting, she’s not going ruin it by breaking the silence first. Organa, for all that he’s Chancellor Organa now, is still Bail Organa, the senior senator who took three hours out of his day to teach a wartime appointee about parli pro. She stares straight at him, direct, the way she’s learned how to be, and eventually he folds.

“Commander Fox has served the Republic honorably,” he starts, “No one begrudges him his record, Riyo, not one person in the Loyalist Party.” He cuts off abruptly, steeling himself. _Well, shit_. The Loyalist Party. Riyo gets the sinking feeling this decision was made long before she climbed those stairs, before she even requested the meeting.

“But you have to admit, it’s not a good look,” he says. “By his own admission, Commander Fox undertook illegal search and seizures for Palpatine, unlawfully held political dissidents, hell, he may have even passed information to the Separatists! And we were all deceived, I won’t try and maintain some kind of moral high ground here, but he was the face of Palpatine’s wartime security regime—”

“Face. That’s funny, Chancellor,” Riyo cuts in.

“Senator Chuchi—” Organa begins, but Riyo cuts him off, a cold, angry disappointment building in the pit of her stomach.

“Commander Fox is the single, qualified individual capable of leading the Coruscant Guard. He has been unfailingly steadfast in his _loyalty_ to the Republic. Who else would you have—”

“Chief Tanivos Divo has expressed significant interest, and not insignificant Senatorial suppor—”

“Tan Divo?!” Riyo screeches, taking no effort to modulate her volume or pitch. “You’re going to _promote_ that sleemo to the _head of the Guard_?!”

“ _Senator_ ,” Organa reprimands, but Riyo bowls right over him.

“There is not a better example of Coruscanti nepotism than the Divo family, and that coalesces into one damp, greasy ball in _Tan Divo_. Who’s backing him, hmm? Bana Breemu? Dantum Roohd? _Xenophobes_ the lot of them. Is that all your liberal consensus is? A poorly veiled humanist front profiting off of the War—”

“ _Riyo_ , that is enough. I understand this is a _personal_ situation for you, but I will ask you to keep your head,” Organa says.

“What is that supposed to mean?” she asks, which is playing so dumb she may as well be brain dead.

Organa levels her a look. “I am not so above the senatorial gossip as to be unaware of your… _relationship_ with Commander Fox. Relations with a Guard member is one thing, Riyo, but advocating for your lover’s military commission is toeing a line—”

“Right, because _my_ relationship is the grossest example of misconduct during this whole war,” she scoffs under her breath, and fuck, there’s the whole thing shot. The moment she says it she regrets it—this will get her nowhere fast on the flaming shitstorm that is this meeting—but if it’s all worthless anyway, at least she can get a shot or two in as she goes down.

“What exactly are you implying, Senator—”

“You read the transcripts. Tell me, Chancellor, what’s the going rate on Jedi generals? One war criminal? Two? Why don’t we ask Padme, I’m sure she’d know best—”

“ _Riyo_ —”

“Oh, wait! We can’t! She’s disappeared! Resigned her seat and everything. What a coincidence that she had to go right when Palpatine was discovered and all of the Separatists’ _Secret Files_ we released—”

“ _Senator Chuchi, you will remain civil towards our former colleague_ —”

“Or what, Chancellor? Will you lock me up and throw away the key? For commenting on your protégé’s war crimes? How much money did she throw away? How many planets did she destroy? How many men died because of her _relationship_ —”

Organa sits back in his seat and raises a hand. _He looks so tired_. Riyo sucks in a breath and tries not to scream. Two years of war. Two years of violence and hunger and fucking Coruscant all swept away in the shadowy tornado of Sheev Palpatine and Padme Amidala and the Jedi. And for what? She spends her days desperately trying to reign in another civil war, trying to hold her caucus together, trying to understand these fucking religious nuts who made pawns of them all, trying not to feel impotent and insignificant, a background character in some far-fetched holodrama; can she not at least have this? Can she not at least do this one thing for the person who deserves it most in the world?

“The Guard will follow anyone you ask them to,” Riyo says. “But they deserve to follow one of their own. They deserve to follow him.”

Organa says nothing. The decision has already been made.

Riyo grits her teeth as she stands to go. “Thank you, Chancellor,” she says. As she approaches the door, she stops, contemplating all of those stairs that she now has to climb down, and lets the corner of her mouth twist. “You can forget about my coalition in counting votes for the reparations omnibus. I’m sorry, but I don’t think we can let a deal so favorable to the Separatists pass without more concessions.”

There’s a weak chuckle from behind her. “No, I didn’t think so, Senator. Thank you, for your time and for delivering the bad news yourself.”

“Don’t mention it.” She has some bad news of her own to deliver.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and happy holidays!


End file.
